


Ketojan Fadewalker

by Maybethings



Series: May Be Promptin' [17]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, M/M, Prompt Fic, Qunlat, conlang
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-10
Updated: 2012-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:03:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maybethings/pseuds/Maybethings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The saarebas dubbed Ketojan in life wanders the confines of the Fade in sleep and in death, meeting many strange people. And things. (Because almost every time I get a Ketojan prompt, he's meeting people he shouldn't...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Surana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Generated prompt. Ketojan/The Warden, favourite foods.

Saarebas kept seeing the strange elf in the Fade as he slept, sitting on a bench with a book and a small bag. Then one night, he actually looked up at him, past the mask and into his eyes. And he smiled.

He dared one step closer, though no more. At least, not that night.

Many nights later, Saarebas sat with the elf at last, thigh-to-thigh. It was pale and long-fingered and unbroken, and bore no fear toward him—only fascination. “I had a friend a little like you, once,” it said with a laugh like the wind and a smile like sunshine. It picked up the bag, which was filled with small, good-smelling lumps. “Would you like a cookie? These are my favourite.”

That is how they became Saarebas’ favourite, too.


	2. Connor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Generated prompt. Connor Guerrin/Ketojan, capitulate

Even now, the demon flickers at the edges of his dreams, dogging him everywhere he goes in the Fade. It's enough to drive any boy to distraction.

And then he comes, a great man-beast collared and chained worse than his father's mabaris. His horns are blunted, and behind a broken, tarnished mask is an impassive, soft mouth stitched together with dark, coarse thread. When he steps near, Acquisition's voice fades and that flick of purple flame at the corner of his eyes disappears. He realizes that his breath is no longer tainted with a cloying perfume of tuberose. The air is just that—clean air.

The Qunari stands at his shoulder, a clawed hand resting casually at his back as he speaks. Between the foreign tongue and the bound lips, Connor only catches a few words: _kost, imekari, saar, hissra, Qun_. He is wary, but tired, so very, very tired. He wants to rest.

He surrenders, and the Qunari lets him lean against his warm side. "Sleep, boy. There will be no struggle," he growls, and then there is nothing.

When Connor wakes in Circle robes, on a Circle bed, he remembers only a smell of blood, metal and musk, and peace. An accepting, warm peace that stays with him the whole day.


	3. Nicolas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Generated prompt. Ketojan/Nicolas, sleepover.

The Fade-grass is soft and verdant here, and the air warmed by a gentle heat. The dreamer here is a strong one.

“Stay,” says the blonde man, his cheeks flushed and happy, and his more sombre companion nods a silent assent. “Stay and rest a while. It is beautiful here, is it not?” Ketojan has to agree, and if he tarries there for an hour or two, slowly and deliciously nodding off—there is no arvaarad who will know.


	4. Andraste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Number list prompt. So, [Andraste] has decided to become a mercenary after being fed up with life and responsibilities. [Ketojan] finds them five years later BUT is missing one of their limbs from battle. How does [Andraste] react? Do [Andraste] and [Ketojan] have fond memories? Or is it a bitter rivalry returned and settled?

If the mage were one of the _bas_ , he might have uttered, “Sweet Andraste” at the sight of the tall, proud woman standing in a pool of Fade-water, a ball of fire at her right hand.

And she would have turned at the mention of her name.

As it is, the woman turns slowly to face him as she senses her presence. “An unusual visitor,” she says to him. “And yet, one of our own, and maimed.”

“It is a small injury.” He looks down at his right arm, crushed by the onslaught of a demon. It is present, but not accountable. “‘Our own’?” he asks.

“You walk the Fade consciously, like I do. Although I am here for just a visit, this time.” She smiles sadly. “There is much unrest in the world I used to know. And if my husband will do nothing, then I must.”

“Women do not fight.” This is something he has picked up from Arvaarad.

“Who said anything about fighting?” She flicks her skirts through the pool and it ripples once, then grows smooth as a glass mirror. The images are indistinct blobs and blurs to the Qunari, streaks of red and swirling puffs of black, but this woman, this mage seems to intepret them clearly. “I have my champion, and he in his turn has his. Too long has the Maker looked away from Man. But in his turn, Man has turned from the Maker’s own.”

Ketojan feels…something settling in the pit of his stomach. He is not sure if it is apprehension or anticipation. “Is this a wise choice?”

“It is mine, my brother.”


	5. Morrigan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Generated prompt. Morrigan/Ketojan, the sound of laughter. Written for Morrigan Week on Tumblr. First in the series, but effectively the end of Ket's travels.

"Mother, I think he is lost." The god-child stared up at her with eyes so like her own, it still took her breath away; even she, the only one who could stand to hold Urzalle's gaze for any length of time. Those gold eyes burned, and brightly, like a dragon's breath.

"Perhaps he is, child. Come, we shall see."

The ground of the Fade rose and fell around Morrigan, but she was powerful and her child's hand was in hers and really, what was a mother to fear that she had not seen a hundred times in dreams and nightmares? She approached the figure, and—paused.

_Sten?_

_No, not Sten._ This one had his broadness of shoulder, but less of the bulk. His nails were long and square-ended, and his horns were trimmed and bound with metal hoops. Faint scars and tan-lines on his skin suggested he had once been masked. Behind the high collar and chains he wore in life, pale hair fell to the nape of his neck and strange round scars puckered the borders of his lips. Stranger still was the way his eyes flickered between pride and humility, power and fear, rebellion and acquiescence.

He did not start when they approached, merely seeming surprised at their sudden appearance. In the Fade, one expected demons, spirits, peaceful dreamers. You did not generally see free mages, purposeful and powerful and purple-hooded, Certainly not children who made the air around them buzz with a power confounding in its purity. But then again, much had happened recently that he had not come to expect.

"I think I am lost," he said. The words were creaky and dry, like aged wood.

"Tis a strange thing to see a Qunari in the Fade. Have you a name?"

"Saarebas...Saarebas, is sufficient. I should be dead. This is...not my place."

"And yet you are here. You _are_ lost." Urzalle wriggled from her grip and wandered toward the stranger. Part of Morrigan wanted to stand and watch. Another part, the part the blasted Warden had a part in creating, wanted to pull her child back to safety. He was powerful, yes, but untried.

If the Saarebas hurt him—if the child did not send him into death beyond death, she certainly would. Her fingers tingled with the first whispers of a cold spell.

"Would it hurt if I touched those?" Urzalle pointed with a plump, straight finger.

Saarebas blinked once, slowly. His eyelashes were long and pale. "It would not."

"Then can I?" He sensed the child could force him to his knees. It was just being courteous.

Saarebas bowed at the waist and let the child pat one blunted horn. When Urzalle giggled at the new sensation, his own mouth twisted into what might be called a smile.

"Urzalle! Come away now."

The child's simple joy dissolved into reluctance. "Yes Mother. Can we make him unlost?"

Morrigan scanned the horizon, feeling a wind that was not wind, and says "I suppose we must. I do not wish to have another pair of eyes on us tonight. Walk straight on, Qunari. There will be a way made for you. Do not turn back. Do not _look_ back."

"Thank you."

"Is it time to play now, Mother?"

"Yes, child. 'Tis time for the games you like best."

Saarebas walked and walked, until a shimmering portal appeared before him. This was it then. The final surrender. He imagined that far behind him, he could hear the woman and her offspring weaving magic, playful magic, joyful magic that would lead him out of this place for the last time. He touched his eyelids, thin, fragile things, then the scars over his lips—and stepped through the door into nothing, laughing like he had not done since he was a boy.

It was everywhere: the sound of their freedom.


End file.
